teach me how to shine (shine)
by Glockenspielium
Summary: The aftermath affects everyone differently. (post season three episode two)


_Star star  
Teach me how to shine, shine  
Teach me so I know what's going on in my mind_

* * *

One hand is stretched out along the sand, reaching, yearning, pulling against all impossibilities. The other has found a grip on the link tethering him to the others, ready to release it in an instant.

But then the world around him explodes into nothingness within seconds, blinding and deafening whiteness prevails, burning against his retinas, overwhelming as it presses against his lips, his throat, his chest - but he cannot let go.

Not now, no way.

The heaviness persists, tumbling around him in splintering shards, gloriously real and tangible as the fingers clasped around his. His hearing returns before his sight, blinking away the dust to greet an improbable scene.

(He might need to revise his definition of the word impossible.)

Their fear is palpable, but his heart is soaring.

Exhausted fingers delved into the rubble, to reveal his prize. Shaking arms engulf her in all the safety and warmth and familiarity he can give, stinging eyes notice every scratch, every angle, every tremble; each of them a precious sight, drinking in deeply at the sight of her.

There had yet to be a problem they couldn't solve together.

It had been true for so many years, despite all the challenges thrown their way, the most terrible tragedies and unexpected complications, they had managed, they had fought (side by side) and they had succeeded. Perhaps that is how he knew to carry on fighting on his side - she would be furious to find out he wasn't holding up his side of the team.

He tucks her head beneath his chin as they meld together in the mess of stones and a ruined contraption that had the audacity to attempt to tear them apart. It's just the start, of course, but for now, the contact is enough.

There is yet to be a problem they cannot solve together.

* * *

Fitz doesn't appear to be listening.

"You have to stay here for at least four hours, we don't know what radiation might have been emitted from that planet, even with your description, you were barely there and-"

He starts to laugh. She wants to slap him across the face; did he really have no clue about how her heart torn when he'd jumped into the swirling silver pool, had sank when the monolith had shattered into tiny pieces, did he really think she cared about him that little?

"Sorry, I really am Bobbi, sorry, I just-" His hands rest up against the glass, it's been so long since she's seen even the faintest glimmer of a smile on his face, the full effect in front of her, now, is slightly bewildering. The words aren't coming, lost somewhere between the broad expanse of teeth, but it's a joyous loss, without a struggle in sight.

"I know." She manages to smile back at him, genuinely, finally. "I'm glad she's back too."

He just keeps smiling, and smiling and smiling on- Jemma's containment cell is just across the way.

"But!" She clears her throat, drawing her gaze away, wondering how she can feel flushed, as if she is intruding on an intimate moment between two people while they are still separated by many meters and nuclear resistant glass, and one party is asleep. "You still have to stay here, for now. Okay?"

His eyes drag back to her for long enough to nod directly, cheeks surely aching, hair windswept, covered head to toe in dust and sand. This is the man who didn't give up when they didn't even have the faintest glimmer of hope to hang onto, this is he who managed the impossible from almost nothing, she knows he's not about to lose sight now.

She sets up the monitors to check his levels every ten minutes, and alert her to any abnormal results, initiating the relevant emergency procedure alarms along the way. He might think they're untouchable, but she knows that things can always fall apart if someone isn't checking each thread to the very end. In fact, they almost always do.

He catches her, as she's about to leave, just when she thought he was too lost in his own thoughts to notice her slip away.

"Thank you, really. And I promise, I'll stay here for six bloody months if you want me to."

She presses her ID against the scanner, opening the airlock, looking back over her shoulder at the pair of scientists, in new cages of their own, once again, but finally freed.

"I know you will."

* * *

 _What's that in her hand?_

Mac leans over, his entire upper body dominating the space above her sleeping form with uncanny ease, fingers plucking at something lodged firmly in her closed fist. He manages to roll her arm out gently, the sedative medication proving it's efficacy as he unfolds her forearm, revealing a small, sharp stick burrowing in the nook of her curled fingers.

"Huh."

He twists his fingers, trying to find an angle to pull it out. Her grasp is concrete, hardly giving an inch, but if he can just-

"Don't." Daisy's voice is little more than a whisper, her fingers are gentle on his arm, but he still flinches back at the contact. That's the third time this week she's caught him unawares. She smiles up at him from behind the few strands of hair that insist on falling in front of her eyes since she chopped most of the length away.

He shakes his head at her, standing back upright, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

They stand there for a moment, side by side, watching Jemma sleep. The screaming has finally stopped, but they can't be certain it won't return when she wakes, like last time. They've dimmed the lights, reduced the equipment, brought in her old pillow, sheets and a few of her books (all items prioritised at Fitz's recommendation). Coulson was reluctant to let her out of the med bay, but since he wasn't the one who brought her back, his authority on the situation has somewhat waned.

"Imagine how terrified she must have been." Daisy is eying the stick, and the words come with a certain heaviness of understanding. Being hunted isn't something that anyone forgets quickly.

"She doesn't need it anymore," He reasons, "She's safe here, now."

Daisy looks down affectionately, her fingers stretching out to brush Jemma hair gently, stilling swiftly as she rouses slightly, before withdrawing her hand altogether, her face hardening. She forgot, everything's different (again).

"She's safe here, yes," She smiles up at him, her voice so simple he is abruptly taken right back to primary school, with gentle explanations and easy words, "And we're going to make sure it stays that way- but she doesn't know that."

* * *

They don't need a pilot, not anymore.

Bobbi is skilled and reliable, but even beyond his team, there are always a couple of agents who fly well enough for his bizarre requests, who are happy to be hauled out in the middle of the night, who will smile at him as he enters the cockpit and tell him how they are from landing.

He doesn't need to cut ten nails anymore. Perhaps that was the strangest thing to discover, once the pain had receded and the pitying looks had grown bearable. The nail scissors, poised between two fingers, bewildered by the impossibility of their current situation.

They don't need a specialist. They have an inhuman.

He sometimes wondered what she did, all those years behind the desk, how it was bearable. The one thing that connected them always, was the persistent itch for work in the field; it's what lead to their numerous detentions at the academy, their countless successful cases as partners. He tries to imagine her content stapling, filing, sorting- he doesn't have to imagine that part, he came by her desk every morning and afternoon until she made it clear that if he continued to visit her in such a manner, he would not be permitted to visit her at all.

He tries to imagine her content.

The new hand, that also itches. It settles uncomfortably just below his elbow, wrong (so wrong) but a necessity. It's marvelous, and he never expected anything less than that, but it's not his. The itch hides behind his shoulder, sometimes toying on the opposite hand, sometimes crawling down along his arm, and back up again, in electric currents that he can hide as long as he has something to lean against and a lip to bite down on. That way, no one seems to notice.

They never really needed a pilot, but he's always needed her.

* * *

 _Cause I don't understand these people  
Saying the hill's too steep, well  
They talk and talk forever  
But they just never climb_


End file.
